Soup.

I did not have this book in my loft. Image by spike55151 via Flickr. The soup wasn't too bad actually. All things considered, Max hadn't done a bad job. He'd managed to get out of the attic, explaining the locks were only really effective against rats anyway, and was seated opposite me. It slipped my notice at the time, but if one were to observe us, they would notice Max had no  soup in front of him - even though he got through last night with only books to eat (The rat bit him and escaped in what he called a "hamster helicopter")

 Anyhow, I asked Max exactly how he was now the owner of a wooden arm, since the whole rat-attic joke situation - which Max spent two days working on - didn't answer the question.
 He explained the rats, of which he had obtained many, had chewed his arm off while he was distracted by television. I didn't really know how that could happen, but I no longer cared. Max would only explain what'd happened if I asked more questions anyway.
 "What happened to the rats?" I asked.
 "Oh, after they bit me, I hit them with a mallet!" He replied. A fear began to grow inside my tum-tums, spreading up to my neck and down to my loins.
 "Then I put them in the soup. Seemed tidy, and damn efficient."
I nodded, putting the soup spoon down sadly.

Still, I was hungry, and I'd been a student. Deciding I'd probably eaten worse, I picked the spoon up again.

 At least it wasn't tramp...

Return of the prodigal me.

Yes. It was based on my life, you know. Cover via AmazonI'm home now. The train, kindly, pulled up right outside my house. I say kindly - I expect the council are going to be pretty pissed I encouraged rail workers to build a railway line down my street. But anyway, I'm home. A worrying fact occurred to me as I collected my luggage and circumnavigated my duckpond - I'd left Max alone in the house. I mean, I locked the doors and opened the window a little before I left.
 Besides, he had the soup. And probably some tramps in there. I really must pay more attention to what's happening in my house before I lock it up...

I steeled myself at the door, as I've done so many times before, and prepared myself for some new and absurd horror.
 The house looked normal. My pictures were straight, the rug free of urine - which was certainly good, I can't afford another Big Lebowski-esq adventure - and my microwave was free of play-dough. Max was in the kitchen, stirring what I assumed to be soup on the hob when I found him. There were no tramps around, and even better, nothing indicating he'd hacked up tramps and made soup out of them. I greeted him, and slumped into a seat by the table. Max, stirring with his right arm, turned to face me,
 It was then I noticed his left arm, previously blocked from view by his body.
 It was made of wood.

Seriously. There was a dazed woodpecker on it and everything.

Once again, I get myself into a situation where I have to clarify I'm not a Nazi paedophile

What? I didn't mention I live in Minas Tirith? Image by Alegrya via FlickrI went into the basement earlier, looking for that pile of uniforms Max and I got from an alternate universe. But that's a long story, you wouldn't be interested in it anyway.
 I found them behind a pile of storage boxes - flat-pack furniture, still got too much of the bloody stuff - all shiny and black and jackbooty. Very smart. Very Nazish too, but that's how you get the kids these days - with smart uniforms, not modified fascism. And by get the kids, I mean involve them in a project or something. Not in a paedophile way. Hmm, I needed to make far too many clarifications. Doesn't flow. Not good writing. Use words bad, me do.
 Anyhow, I moved the uniforms upstairs. Max had set up a semi-working soup kitchen, kidnapping local vegetables (Only the racist ones) and boiling them up. After they received their food, I shepherded the queue of tramps through the house, directing them first to the shower, and then into a nice, shiny new uniforms. I was building an army. Well, sort of. Every 20th member got a flag - a white tree on a black background.

Afterwards, I assemble them in the yard. They're given Nerf guns to train, I'll get real weapons later. Foam swords to practise with. There's something evil coming, the armies of Mordor are on the march. When the army's fully equipped, I plan to move to Osgiliath, secure the city once and for all. Then we can start to push back the forces of Sauron.
 But first, I need to take my medication. Been busy recently, under a lot of stress. Don't feel all there. Not to worry, the mist should clear when I'm free of the glare of that accursed eye...

Hungry, hungry hobos

Pulling back the corner of the curtain, I peered outside, into the dawn-tinted street. The queue, stretching earlier only from my front door to the gate, now reached most of the way down my road. But it didn't end outside Mrs. Cobain's house, where it reached it's furthest from my door. No, the tramps stationed in her geraniums and near her gnomes were not the end of the line, only the middle. Bizarrely, like the titular character from snake, the queue snaked in on itself, moving in straight lines and turning at right angles, until the observer finally finds one homeless man, cap in hand, standing back to side with another, far further up the queue. Also like snake, a few of them were eating mice, but that's besides the point.

 How, I hear you ask, a mob clamoring to be heard, did I become host to the great unwashed masses?


Image via Cyanide and Happiness.
Obviously



Well, it turned out there was more of Mr. Potato to go around than I thought. When I went out to dispose of our racist food-friend, I managed to feed 17 hungry, hungry hobos. Word soon spread, and my description likewise. It wasn't long before my house was found, and this great mob descended on it looking for food, cider and small change. Tiny flea ridden dogs bathed in my duckpond. Old, wrinkled men played the accordion on my garage. A man in a smart but dirty suit, worn with age and general wear and tear, sipped cold tea from a chipped teacup on my front lawn.

For my part, I stayed inside. I hoped the problem would go away. After all, I can't boil all my friends and feed them to the homeless.

 Not even Max.

 I think.

We were at the train station

It wasn't a tube station. It wasn't midnight. It wasn't a brothel this time though, so Go Me!
 While I was certainly at an actual train station today, there were still no trains. The kids were milling around pointlessly, buying tomato soup from a vending machine and pouring it on tramps and passing dogs. A conductor in a uniform predating the war stood stiffly nearby. Growing weary of the trainlessness, I approached him to ask when any form of train would arrive.
 "Trains? Goodness Son, I haven't seen one of them since before the war. When I got this uniform" - I knew it - "Don't get many people here these days."
 I looked around. The train station, spreading extensively into the horizon, was packed with people. Moreover, the conductor was about 25, pale-faced and spotty, not a veteran of the Second World War rail service.
 "But don't worry!" He began again, "I have my own train service! I'll carry you to you destination!"
 Spreading his arms out, he encouraged the children to climb onto his back. They rushed forwards, excitedly, hesitantly. I reached out and stopped them, encouraging them to back away.
 Quickly, we reached the steps, where I shouted "RUN!" and we all ran.
 Behind us, trains began to pull into the station. I don't know what that was all about, but I don't think I'll be using public transport again...

A tall tale concerning soup

Max slammed the soup down in front of me. Properly slammed it down, I mean. It made a sort of Thud! noise, and a warm, tomato-like substance splashed my face. I considered asking him what was wrong, but Max was like an enigma: hard to fit into an everyday conversation. I returned my attention to the soup, deciding it would be easier to understand, or at least eat. It was not, however, easier to eat - Max had not provided me with a spoon. Nervously, I hazarded the question to him.
 "Spoon?" He yelled at me. "I'll spoon you!"
I waited for him to run the sentence through his mind for a second. After 36, he still hadn't noticed his minorly amusing statement, so I pointed it out to him. He glared at me, stormed into the kitchen, and returned with a handful of spoons. Angrily, he began to throw them at me, shouting abuse in Esperanto.
 Sometimes, I regret the day I rescued Max from the dumpster. It's not that he was abandoned like a puppy or a prom-night baby, just that he got stuck in there one day while looking for clams. To this day, he blames mole-people. I don't believe him though: Mole people are very respectable members of society, and I won't hear a word said against them.

It was getting dark, when it suddenly hit me...

that I didn't have a mouth. After 14 minutes of trying to spoon soup into the flat area of face under my nose, I looked in the mirror and felt that this sentence was long and badly written. I also thought, "I have no mouth".
 I apologise - Its early, and I'm feeling the effects of a bottle of vodka... Just get to the joke, get it over with...
Panicking, I ran from the house and drove to Max's. The door quickly yielded to my frantic knocking, as Max - resplendent in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts combo entirely unsuitable for the time of year - appeared. I noticed the flash of alarm when he obviously noticed my lack of mouth, but when he said nothing, I began to frantically point to my face.
 He looked at me, only just restraining laughter:
 "What's wrong?" Come on..." He chuckled, "Spit it out! Cat got your..." But now he was on his knees, in floods of laughter. I waited a few minutes, then hit him with a lamp.
If you're reading this, please send an ambulance to his house.

Snow White and the 7 racist dwarves

Ding-dong went the doorbell ominously. (Yea, doorbell stories are back, and that was a shit sentence, sorry)
I looked up from my soup, but did nothing. Maybe whoever it was would go away if I ignored them. Of course, that never works, and it was foolish to entertain the though. So, reluctantly, I got out of the soup and wiped myself down with a towel.
 "Yes?" I demanded upon opening the door. I first imagined I would be a strange sight - wearing only a towel, and with tomato and coriander dripping from my hair - but what I saw before me was shocking more even so! (I'm fucking with you now, not even I write that badly) In front of me were 7 dwarves, who at first appeared to be your typical long-bearded Tolkienesque types. However, on closer inspection, I noticed they were wearing replica Nazi uniforms.
 "Ah, good morning!" One announced. I assumed he was their leader -  A small toothbrush moustache was sat under his nose. To achieve this, he had shaved away the rest of his beard-moustache-thing, so he resembled a Hitler-coconut. As he spoke, there was some discussion behind him as to whether the group liked red people or not.
 "Can I help you?" I asked. Frankly, I didn't want to help, but there were a lot of them, and they had axes.
 "We'd like to take this opportunity tell you about some of our fantastic clothing items, my good man. Here, take a catalogue."
I took the catalogue. Flicking through it, I saw some rather nice items for dwarves - mainly chain-mail, with some plate armour thrown in for good measure.
 "Now, you may have noticed that these items are not all, ahem... In your size. But the helmets should fit, you know?"
I nodded knowingly. I continued to nod knowingly for several minutes, but the dwarves didn't leave. Eventually, I felt the need to ask:
 "What's with the Nazism?"
 "Ah, yes. Well, I'm sorry about this, it's company policy. It's not something I personally agree with, but many of the older members of the Dwarven community still hold on to the old racial purity views - You know, nasty, anti-goblin stuff: "Dwarf Fortresses for Dwarves", "Decapitate Orcs on Thursdays", that sort of thing. Anyway, we'll leave the pamphlet with you - If you make an order, make sure to mention me. Clive's the name!".
With that, they turned and left. I'm glad I got a catalogue, I can burn it and use the fire to re-heat my soup. How contrived my life seems nowadays...